


and will it tell us who we are and will it tell us why we dream

by SorryFreudianSlip



Category: Hannibal (TV), Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Implied Cannibalism, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Recreational Drug Use, Swearing, Vomiting, im sorry mom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 15:57:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7624819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SorryFreudianSlip/pseuds/SorryFreudianSlip
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Or we could socialize, like adults.” Hannibal took a bite of sausage. “God forbid we shed the skin of the uncomfortable and become friendly.”<br/>“I’m okay with things being uncomfortable with us.”<br/>Hannibal quirked a little smile. “I apologize.” He said. “Another patient said something very similar.”<br/>*<br/>Elliot Alderson is referred to Hannibal for therapy. It kinda goes downhill from there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and will it tell us who we are and will it tell us why we dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thecannabiskid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecannabiskid/gifts).



> "...and will it tell  
> us how we drink crawl eat walk die fly do?  
> a notalive undead too-nearishness..."
> 
> Title from e. e. cummings "a people shaped toomany-ness".  
> This sort of takes place after Elliot's huge monologue to Krista, way back in season 1.  
> Enjoy!

Elliot Alderson turned a slow circle in Hannibal’s office. He rarely took such young patients, as it reminded him of some...difficult times. But an old student had called almost in tears, needing help with this one. He could have a quick consult. It was worth it for the sake of appearances.

“Elliot?”

The boy didn’t react, studying a painting. Hannibal walked in a smooth arc. He had a feeling that a direct approach would not be appreciated. 

“Elliot.”

Elliot turned to him, blinking his large, glassy eyes. 

Junkie. So young, too. 

“How do you know Krista?” Elliot’s voice was dusty. Smoker, Hannibal thought. Marijuana, as well as Tobacco. The stench from his jacket was almost overwhelming. 

“She’s an old student of mine.”

“Oh.” 

“Why do you ask?”

“I, uh. Worry about her.” He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, his hands in his pockets. Hannibal licked the tip of his pen.

“She worries about you. Would you like to sit?”

“Uh…”

“You don’t have to. I would like to, if that’s alright.”

“It’s your office.” 

Hannibal sat. Elliot stayed standing, all frenetic motion.

*

Hannibal’s office was more like a mauseoleum, like that old Addams Family show. Elliot was surprised his voice didn’t echo around the high ceilings. Heavy, red curtains hung over the windows. He felt cold. 

“Why was I sent to you?” Elliot asked. He looked him up, of course. Hannibal Lecter, Doctorate. Surgeon. Facebook page, nothing on it. “You don’t do...child’s therapy.” 

“You’re not a child, Elliot.”

“I feel like one, in here.” He mumbled.  _ I’m talking a lot. Thank you for not looking smug or commenting on it. _ **“** I feel like I shouldn’t touch anything or I’ll break it.”

“Would you like to break something?” 

“N-no thanks.”

“Where are you from, Elliot?”

“New York.”  _ Originally New Jersey. Do I have to say that out loud? _

“You came all the way out here just for therapy?”

“Work.”

“What do you do?”

“You already know that.”

“I’d like to hear it in your own words.”

“What did Krista tell you?”  _ Our last conversation? The hacking? How I told her about her own porn habits? How I watched her cry on her webcam? _

“Does it matter? Does it worry you, the two of us talking about you?”

“Uh.” Elliot fought the urge to chew on his knuckle.

“What would she tell me, do you think?”

“I dunno. Can we talk about something else?”

“I’d like to explore this difficulty with trust, if that’s alright. What are you afraid of me knowing?”

Elliot looked just above Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal was the very image of calm, welcoming even. But his eyes were so carefully blank. He looked like he was waiting for Elliot to slip up, and  _ pounce. _ He let his eyes unfocus. This was like talking to his mother. 

*

Hannibal watched Elliot  check out , so to speak. It was almost boring, as defense mechanisms go. Will at least deflected with morbid humor. He could appreciate that. 

“If you’d like to sit in silence, that’s okay.” He waited for Elliot’s glassy eyes to at least twitch in his direction. “This time is yours. It can be whatever you need it to be.”

Elliot’s lips twitched. “People don’t usually make allowances for what I need.”

“To rephrase then, Elliot.” Hannibal leaned forward. “What is it that you want?” 

*

Elliot sat on the floor of his shitty hotel. He couldn’t sleep on the bed, so he just pulled the blanket off and used his sweatshirt as a pillow. The sheets smelled weird. His jacket smelled familiar.

There was something  _ off _ about Hannibal. Yes, Elliot is aware that he’s a paranoid fuck, but. Shit. There was something in Hannibal’s eyes that reminded him of his mother, of cigarettes put out on his arm, of shattered windows and-

He didn’t have enough morphine for this. 

Elliot opened up his laptop. He was a friend of Krista. What was he expecting to find?

*

Two hours later, Elliot had his head in his hands. Fuck. He stared at a sparse Facebook page, probably made for him by a niece or  _ something _ . It was barely enough for a grandma-

Wait. 

Elliot scrolled through again. Just enough. It was _ just  _ enough to maintain...an image. He’d have to schedule another appointment, hack into the iPad he saw on his desk. 

Elliot groaned. That might require him to be sociable.

*

“Where are you from?” Elliot asked. He stared at Hannibal’s shoes, wishing he could say something about the art on the wall, the statue of a stag that seemed about ready to gore him. He had no idea how to start a conversation. His phone was on his thigh, seeking out Hannibal’s iPad. It must have a passcode. Hannibal didn’t look  _ that  _ out of touch.

“I am from Lithuania.” Hannibal gave him a small smile.

“Why’re you here?”

“I came to America to learn at John Hopkin’s University.” _ John Hopkin’s Fellowship. Old article. Hannibal was, what, 17? “ _ I found a nice home here, some kind friends. I decided to stay.”

“Is that true?” 

Hannibal paused. “Would you like it to be?”

“I ran. From, uh.” Elliot said. Usually when Krista revealed personal information, she expected some in return. He cleared his throat, rubbing his thigh.“I lived in New Jersey before New York. With. Yeah.” 

“Sometimes, I find myself tailoring the truth a bit. Just to make it fit cleaner.” Hannibal crossed his legs. 

“I think everyone does.”

“Why?”

“Because.” Elliot looked up at Hannibal’s bookshelves. “Our true selves aren’t impressive. People post their best moments on, uh, Facebook. Or whatever. When were you born?”

“1965.”

“What music do you like?”

“I enjoy the opera, especially the works of Wagner and Mozart.”

Elliot broke out into cold sweat. He licked his lips. “Why are you smiling?” 

“Pardon me. Talking to you is refreshing. I tiptoe around things with my other patients. You go for the jugular, so to speak. Like a college orientation.” 

“That’s the social level I’m at. Are you gonna ask me questions now?”    
“Should I?” 

Elliot bit at his nails, looking at the painting on Hannibal’s wall. Some old print of the black plague. People dancing, corpses rotting. “Isn’t that how it works? I ask you stuff, you ask me stuff?”

“That could be. Is that a structure you would like?”

“I dunno. I usually just say what people want to hear.”

“What if the person in question would like to hear the truth?”

“No one ever does.”

“Well, Elliot.” Hannibal placed his pad and pen on his side table, amusement hanging around the corner of his lips. “If we are to follow your conversation structure, may I ask a question of you?”

Elliot wished he could put his hood up, if only to hide from Hannibal’s gaze. “Uh. Yeah. Okay.” 

“Why do you have your phone out?”

Elliot’s stomach dropped. He blinked at Hannibal. “It. Makes me feel safe.”

*

Hannibal had a four digit password. Almost too easy. Elliot had been expecting Lithuania’s independence date, or his birthday, or  _ something _ . Whatever.

There were emails between him and someone named Dr. Bloom, as well as an Agent Crawford. Initially intriguing, but just dinner invitations, or banal pleasantries that he barely skimmed. Thankfully, his iPad linked to his smartphone through his e-mail. Professional contacts, recipe ideas, DIY exfoliating scrubs, an Amazon Prime order for...an all in one wrench, nail pick, and bottle opener? Okay.

His photos were screenshots of recipes, or images of paintings. Elliot could write him off as an eccentric, upper-class doctor but. There was something wrong.

*

Twenty minutes later, Elliot cracked a personal folder. He ran to the bathroom and threw up. 

* 

Hannibal swirled a glass of rosé. Two strawberry tarts sat in the oven, as he waited for Will to respond. He had invited him over for a midnight snack, of course. The last scene he had left him was beautiful, even for Hannibal’s standards. He was very much anticipating a reaction.

Will always understood his art, cherished it and loved it as no one else could. Loved  _ him _ as no one else could. Will simply wasn’t aware of it yet. 

No response. Perhaps he was asleep. Hannibal closed his eyes as he imagined what a sight that would make. His curls, tousled from nightmares. His sweat drenching his sheets. His mind on fire, filled with terrors of Hannibal’s creation. 

But that was a dangerous line of thinking. He licked his lips. One shouldn’t waste dessert. 

*

Elliot gasped into the toilet bowl, his breath echoing around him. He felt like crying, or screaming, or calling Krista and begging her to run. 

Pictures of- _ shit _ . Elliot fought the urge to heave. 

It started out creepy, but okay. Pictures of a man, maybe his boyfriend. The slope of his jaw, the fan of his eyelashes. His full face, leaning against a pillow. The man was  _ asleep _ . But maybe it was his boyfriend. Maybe he knew. Maybe it was okay. Hannibal wouldn’t break into someone’s house just to take pictures, right?

Then came crime scenes. This could be explained away, couldn’t it? The emails with Jack. He was called into investigate. Just crime scene photos he saved to look over. Just photos of corpses, arranged like paintings. Like Hannibal’s painting collection. Just photos of a woman mounted on antlers, photos of organs on a steel table, marked for recipes, photos of a man with his chest hollowed out and filled with flowers, pictures-

Elliot retched. Nothing left to come up, just stomach acid. He moaned.

He had to talk to Hannibal.

*

_ Are you up _ ? 

Hannibal looked down at his phone. Unknown number.

_ I’m sorry, who is this _ ?

_ Elliot Alderson. Could we talk _ ?

Hannibal blinked at his phone, then slowly smiled, baring his teeth. What a... _ fortunate _ turn of events.

_ Of course. I have dessert for two at my house, if you can make the drive _ .

He really did have lovely eyes. Perhaps he could pluck them out and keep them.

* 

Fuck. Elliot stared at his phone. He was thinking they could just text. Of course he wouldn’t get off  _ that _ easy. 

Should he print out the pictures and go to the police? Should he meet with Hannibal and slam them down on his stupid mahogany table? Elliot tossed his laptop in his backpack.

Shit. Shit.  _ Shit _ .

He was really gonna go over there, wasn’t he?

*

Hannibal opened the front door to see Elliot, his hood up. His hollow eyes weren’t focused on him. He sighed. He had hoped they were past this.

“Come in, Elliot. Are you quite alright?”

“Okay.” He mumbled.

“I have dessert prepared. Would you like a snack?”

“I don’t think I can eat.”

“No? Not feeling well?”

“No.” Elliot looked into his deep, blank eyes. His voice shook. “I don’t trust you. And when I don’t trust someone-” He broke off. Hannibal could kill him, right here. Fuck. Did he want to tell him? Did he want to die? 

Well. Yeah. Fuck it. Elliot brushed past him.

“Would you like to take off your coat and set your bag down?”

“No.”

“Very well. Follow me to the kitchen.”

*

Krista had called, crying, telling him that Elliot had hacked her. Elliot told her more about herself than anyone ever did. And now Elliot didn’t trust him.

What to do. Hannibal could kill him, of course. He didn’t seem to have many people in his life who cared about him. His drug dealer, maybe. 

Hannibal took the two tarts out of the oven along with a metal bowl of whipped cream. Will wouldn’t mind. He gave them both a heaping spoonful. Elliot really was too skinny.

He slid it along the counter to Elliot, who stared at the red, red berries.

“Do you have problems with trust, Elliot?”

He didn’t answer. He ran his fork through the foamy whipped cream.

“Krista told me you did.” Elliot began to tremble. “Krista told me many things. I’m impressed with you.”

Hannibal put down his plate and walked toward him, predatory. “You’re a very clever boy. Has anyone told you that?” Elliot shook his head. “Very clever.” Hannibal put his hand on the nape of Elliot’s neck. Elliot shuddered.

“Are you gonna kill me?”

“I don’t know, dearest.” 

“You kill because you want attention.” Elliot blurted out. “Not everyone’s attention. Someone’s attention.” 

A thought struck him. “The man in the photos, you love him. You snuck into his fucking house and took  _ pictures _ , you love him so much. But he doesn’t know. No.” 

Hannibal stared, his hand tightening. “No. You make such beautiful art for him, but he’s scared of you. They’re all scared of you. You control them and betray their trust to feel connected with them. Because,” Elliot began to cry. “Because you’re lonely and you wanna feel something. Because it’s fun. Because you’re good at it and no one else _gets_ it.”

“Which one of us are you speaking of?” Hannibal asked softly. Elliot burst into tears, folding in on himself. Hannibal pulled him into a hug, cradling his head. 

Will would like him. He’d live through the night, at least.

*

“I’m afraid my knowledge of hacking is quite limited to the realm of fiction.”

“That’s the way it is for most people.” Elliot sniffed. Hannibal had made him a mug of hot cocoa and demanded he finish his dessert. They were sitting across from each other in the office. Well, Hannibal was sitting. Elliot was hugging his knees to his chest (after Hannibal had him take off his shoes, of course).“It makes my job easier, sometimes. People don’t understand what to really look out for.”

“I can understand that. Some people have an image of what is dangerous. When we don’t fit the description, we can slip under the radar, so to speak. I must say, I see similarities in our work.”

Elliot cocked his head.

“Peeking behind the curtains.” Hannibal took a sip of tea. “Looking at the inner workings of a life. You see the common ground?”

“They can’t lie to me.”

“Very true. Do you lie to Krista?”

Elliot was silent. 

“Why?”

“I don’t want her to worry.”

“She does, anyway. Our job is to heal. Lying doesn’t do either parties any good.”

“Hypocritical of you.”

Hannibal smiled. “Yes. Why do you...hack, Elliot?”

The word sounded strange in Hannibal’s mouth. Elliot shrugged.

“Is it common nature to you? Perhaps that question would be akin to asking you why you breathe or eat.”

“Or asking you why you kill.” Elliot breathed.

“In my case, it’s because they’re rude. They deserve death. I elevate them in art. Do your victims deserve it?”

Elliot sipped his cocoa. “I dunno. How do you choose?”

“Who to kill? I find those who are an offense. People who give more to the world by dying than by living.”   

“People like me?”

“I haven’t decided.”

Elliot quirked a little smile, the first one Hannibal had seen. “I haven’t decided either.”

“Decided what?”

“Decided if I’m scared to sit across from you. I thought I’d be scared. Scared of someone who figured out my hacking. Scared of someone like you.”

“Instead?”

“I feel…” Elliot looked up at the ceiling, leaning back. “Like I’m normal. I’m not lying at all right now.”

“I feel much the same. We know each other’s secrets, Elliot.”

“Should I feel afraid?”

“I don’t want to tell you what you ‘should’ feel.”

“What if I want you to? I’m...not normal. I wish I was.” He dropped his head to his knees, muffling his voice. “I could be a better friend. Better worker. Instead, I’m  _ this _ .”

“We are different, Elliot. Some may love us for that, some may hate us. You have nothing to feel ashamed for.”

“I’m not ashamed. I’m just-” Elliot rubbed the back of his head.  _ Angry? Frustrated? _ “-exhausted. I’m tired of pretending.”

“I feel the same way. That’s what makes moments such as these so gratifying.”

“I’m crazy.”

“Would you like more cocoa?”

“Do you have any morphine?”

“I do.” Elliot’s eyes widened. “May I observe you if you decide to take it?”

“Why?”

“To make sure you don’t hurt yourself.”

“I never do. If you don’t lie to me, I’ll try not to lie to you.”

Hannibal smiled. “I want to see how you act outside of yourself. This is how you self-medicate. I’d like to see if it works.”

Elliot took off his backpack and let Hannibal take his hoodie. He chewed on his lip. “Okay.”

*

“Y’know, I went cold turkey on this stuff.” Elliot watched Hannibal grab some pills, a bowl. They were in a guest bedroom. Instead of the rich, heavy colors in the rest of the house, this room was a powdery blue. The blankets were light, the pillows smelling faintly of citrus. The far window let in the night air, the glow of the moon.

This was a bad idea.

“Did you?”

“Yeah. A...friend locked me in a hotel room. He stayed with me the entire time.”

“Is that to whom you were referring? When you said you wished you could be a better friend?”

“I dunno.”

“You don’t have to take this. It’s here if you would like it.”

“You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course.”

*

Elliot had begun writhing in the sheets. Hannibal checked his watch. 45 minutes since his first dose. He had been lying down, staring at the ceiling. He had occasionally raised his hands, gesturing to something, before letting them fall.

Hannibal watched with placid interest as Elliot fumbled with his shirt. Overheated, then.

Hannibal stood from his chair, laying his notepad and pen aside. He knelt on the bed, helping Elliot with his shirt. Elliot made a breathy little noise, leaning into his touch, before collapsing against him, leaving them both to fall in an undignified heap against the pillows. Elliot thrashed around a bit, before finding a comfortable spot to rest his head on Hannibal’s chest. He groaned, finally exhausted.

Hannibal hummed to himself, stroking Elliot’s hair. He could suffocate him against the pillow. The death would be easy to explain. 

Hannibal glanced down at the boy, clinically observing the sharp jut of his ribs, his smooth stomach, his erection. Hannibal nipped at one of his bony shoulders, breathing up into Elliot’s neck. He licked sweat from his lips. Elliot bucked his hips.

Very rude. Hannibal backhanded him across the face. Elliot wrenched out a sob. “Mama…”

Curious, Hannibal hooked his fingers into Elliot’s collarbone, squeezing. “Mama! Mama it hurts  _ please _ -” he latched onto Hannibal’s shirt “-I’ll be so good you won’t even  _ hear _ me  _ mama please please _ -”

Hannibal grabbed him by the throat, cutting him off. Elliot gagged as he was pushed backwards, his back arching and his ribcage contorting and he tried to breathe. He mouthed the word “mama” one more time, his hips still seeking Hannibal’s.

Hannibal let him go, delighting in the way he gasped and began to weep, at least until he got distracted by something on the far side of the wall, something only his fevered brain could see.

Hannibal carefully rolled Elliot onto his front, where he latched onto a pillow and groaned against it. Hannibal walked back over to his chair, considering the fragile body before him. 

He looked like some ancient creature, wounded and aching. The Norse God of Trickery, bound to a rock under Asgard as snake venom dripped into his eyes. Symeon, starving himself upon a pillar for Lent, or Saint Sebastian, face contorted in pitiful acceptance.

Hannibal would need to fetch his charcoals. This would be an exquisite piece. 

He opened a clean sheet in his sketchbook, Elliot’s moans ringing in his ears.

*

Elliot came back to himself in the morning, shirtless in bed. He stared at the ceiling. 

“Awake, Elliot? Here, have some water with ginger.” Hannibal helped him sit up. Elliot didn’t  _ need _ the help. It felt nice, though. 

“Thanks. What did you…” He glanced at Hannibal’s note pad, wishing he could read it. Did Hannibal sleep at all, last night?

“Just some notes. Breakfast?” Elliot stared at him. “I’ve cancelled my appointments. You can spend the day here, if you wish.” 

Elliot felt something akin to dread wash over him. He crossed his arms, bringing his knees to his chest. His throat ached. His cheeks burned. “What did you do to me?”

“Pardon?”

“You did something. I can feel-” hands, cold, all over him pinned down _ trapped  _ “-something.” He shuddered. 

“You didn’t react well to the drugs. You hurt yourself. I held your wrists.”

“Bullshit. I’ve never-”

“You should take a shower, Elliot. You’ll feel better.”

Elliot watched him leave, then stumbled into the shower to throw up.

*

Vomit and water swirled down the drain. Elliot shouldn’t have watched it, the movement dizzying. He coughed up a bit more cocoa, then sat in the shower.

His reflection sported a collar of bruises around his throat, and a stinging mark against his face. He had never hurt himself while high. Never. 

He traced the sharp line of his collarbone. That was the best night’s sleep he’d had in a long while.

*

Hannibal leaned against the wall, listening to the water run. He flipped through the pages of his sketchpad. Sweat pooling in the small of Elliot’s back. Elliot’s skin, taut against his ribs. Elliot’s eyes, frenzied and dilated, stretched open by his own fingers. 

Beautiful. 

He should make breakfast. The poor thing was so thin.

*

Elliot followed the smell of pancakes and fruit to Hannibal’s kitchen. It looked more like a theatre. Everything was neat and tidy, fresh fruits and vegetables bright against polished marble.

He was in his  _ kitchen _ . Shit. Elliot remembered organs pressed down on countertops. 

“You’re making pancakes?”

Hannibal looked up. “Crépes. I thought something light would be good on your stomach. Have you had them before?”

Elliot shook his head, pulling his hoodie around him like a blanket. It smelled nice. Hannibal had washed his clothes. 

“Something new. The first of many.” Elliot closed his eyes. If he thought about nothing at all, he could smell pancakes. Hear someone laughing, the spray of whipped cream. Someone familiar.

He blinked, and the memory was gone.

“What’s the stuff in the pan?”

“A raspberry reduction. I also have lemon and confectioner’s sugar.”

He put a plate in front of Elliot, with a slice of lemon and a little dollop of sauce.

“Uh. Thanks. It looks good.”

“I could teach you to make them. They’re very simple.”

Elliot felt an unexpected surge of warmth. He hid it with a bite of crépe. He felt Hannibal’s eyes on him, and took another bite. It was probably poisoned. Fuck it.

“It’s good.”

“Elliot.” Hannibal set his fork down. “In light of recent events, I feel as though I should be honest with you.”

Elliot froze, staring at his plate.

“I’ve contacted Krista and told her that I feel it would be in our best interests for you to remain under my care.”

Hannibal said more. Long words. Justifications. All in a blank, clinical tone. Elliot couldn’t hear him over the sound of glass shattering, the roar of wind in his ears and the feeling of weightlessness.

“You coward.”

Hannibal stopped. “I beg your pardon?”

“You fucking  _ coward _ .” Elliot seethed. “So that’s it? I’m trapped here?”

“Elliot-”

“You own me? Because you’re scared. Scared I’ll rat you the fuck out, you can’t control me-”

“Elliot, please-”

“ _ Stop fucking interrupting me _ !” Elliot threw his glass against the wall. Hannibal went silent, looking at him with pity. As though he was doing him a favor by letting him scream. “Fuck you. You absolute coward. You think that you own me? That you can play house with me because of how lonely you are? That you can slap me around while I’m defenseless because I have power over you when I’m awake?” Elliot laughed. Or maybe he screamed. Either way, Hannibal tensed. “You’re pathetic. The one man you love would hate you if he knew who you are.  _ What _ you are. So you move on to me because, what? I  _ understand _ you? Because I’m just a little bit like him? Why?”

Hannibal stared, his lip curling. “Stop looking at me like that! Tell me, why?”

Elliot collapsed, exhausted. “Why?” He mumbled. “I wanna know. I  _ deserve _ to know.” He heard Hannibal’s footsteps, and looked up at him. “What did I do wrong?”

“Oh, Elliot.” Hannibal sighed. He knelt beside him, pressing a warm towel to his bleeding knuckles. “Would you like to know what I think?” Elliot shook his head. “You tell the truth, I tell the truth. Wasn’t that our deal?” He sat beside him. “I think you’re very much the same as me. Pathetic. Lonely. Powerful, but driven by passing instincts. Come here.” Hannibal caught his wrists as Elliot tried to shove him away. Elliot howled, thrashing.

Hannibal pulled him against his chest, hushing him. “I think I could make you something beautiful. Something powerful, beyond your wildest imagination. You want to help people, no?” Elliot sobbed, nodding. “Then stay with me. I’ll turn you into something truly remarkable.”

He kissed the crown of his head. Elliot flinched. 

“Finish your breakfast.”

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. I can't believe I wrote that.
> 
> You can find me at SorryFreudianSlip.tumblr.com!


End file.
